Memory
by Pipsy
Summary: Going on is hard when you're looking back. Post Reichenbach. Two-shot.
1. John

All standard author's notes and disclaimers apply. (See profile.)

**Memory**

It's hard to forget. Dr. John Watson sips his tea, sitting at the same window table at the same restaurant he and Sherlock went to that very first night together. Outside, the world is dark but lively and John wonders what Sherlock would observe if he were there, how much he would notice and discern that John would miss. John knows it isn't healthy to think so much about his departed friend or to wallow in the grief, but sometimes he misses Sherlock too much and is willing to do almost anything to feel closer to him.

He knows what Sherlock would say- perhaps not the exact words, but his attitude. Sherlock would tell him he was being irrational, that it accomplished nothing to wish for things that were forever gone, and that caring was a handicap. Stoic-faced, he would tuff-up his coat collar and briskly stride out.

John laughs out loud at the image, belatedly realizing how strange- nay, crazy- he must look to the others in the restaurant. The few who know who he is probably pity him. He really should stop going there, but it doesn't seem to matter what he does or what he tries. Sherlock and the emptiness that he left behind remain with him. He'd started out avoiding all things Sherlock. Then he'd tried going through his things and getting rid of none-essential items. He'd tried therapy. He'd tried ranting to Sherlock's grave. He'd even accidentally over-indulged one night in brandy and had taken a crowbar to Sherlock's headstone. He'd gone up to the hospital roof and stood in the exact spot Sherlock had jumped from, looking down to the place where he had stood and watched his best friend die, wondering, _why?_ and what had Sherlock been thinking.

Eventually, John got a dog, just so he wouldn't be alone.

He didn't cry that much after the first week- tears had done all that they could, and the rest of the pain was beyond their touch. He tried to blog- but what did he have to say? And what good had his blog done but to bring attention and harm to a brilliant man, who might still be solving crimes and playing his violin if not for him? John often lamented that he'd taken a lot more than he'd ever given back to Sherlock, and wished for Sherlock's sake- and sometimes his own- that they had never met.

It's hard to move forward when you keep looking back and harder still to find joy in "tomorrow" when all you want is "yesterday". John tries to forget. He tries to let go.

But, for all of his effort, he is still sitting at a table by a window, having drinks with a memory.


	2. Sherlock

**Sherlock**

It's hard to forget. Sherlock Holmes sits in the shadows of an abandoned building, staring through binoculars into the window of the neighboring building. He has work to do and his mind should be focused and uncluttered, but instead he's having trouble concentrating. It's not a problem he's used to having, but of late it has become a reoccurring one. He wonders how John is, what he is most likely doing right now, and he is strangely worried about his happiness. He wants John to be happy, to be doing okay in the aftermath of what Sherlock made him witness, but a small part of him that is both selfish and irrational is just as worried that John has forgotten about him and already put their years together behind him. It confounds Sherlock that he should think that way, but he is only now beginning to realize how much John has impacted his life and changed him.

And that knowledge makes Sherlock more anxious than ever to return to him. But he can't. Not until it's safe. Not until he's rounded up and done away with all of Moriarty's assassins and criminal associates, making sure that they can never threaten John or any of the few people that Sherlock cares about. Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is a distraction. Love is a vulnerability. But he has fallen into the trap of all three, and there is no going back.

So Sherlock keeps working, keeps moving, trying his best to avoid thinking about John and the life that he has lost. He tries to keep his mind focused on what he needs to do and figuring out Moriarty's web, but he always worked better when he had someone to talk to. Not only does he not have John, but he doesn't even have the skull that was his sole companion before John entered his life. In one moment of desperation several weeks earlier, he peeled off one of his socks, put it on his hand, and endeavored to reel off his thoughts to the little sock puppet. He tore it off and threw it on the floor moments later, and then proceeded to sulk for the next hour that he did not have John.

Sitting in the dark with the binoculars, waiting for something to happen, Sherlock feels a pang of remorse for how ill he has treated John, dragging him into danger and always expecting things from him that he has no right to. He knows that he annoys John and that he habitually messes up his love life and personal affairs, that John hated it when he left cadaver parts in the fridge and microwave. Sherlock wonders and worries that some part of John is in fact relieved to be rid of him, that he is happier and his life better without Sherlock.

Sherlock can't stand the thought and he does what can to quickly convince himself that, while that might be true of other people, it is not rue of John. John, who is so exceptional in so many ways, is extraordinary enough to want and need Sherlock in his life, to love him, to miss him, to believe in him when the whole world has turned on him. John will even forgive him for using him to fake his suicide. He has to, although Sherlock doesn't know if it's actually possible.

He remembers seeing John below him on the street, seeing him shift anxiously, longing to come to him. He remembers hearing his voice, hurt, defiant, and afraid. He remembers seeing John at his grave, pleading with him to come back, struggling not to cry and failing. He remembers silently promising John that he would come back, that he would make everything right again, and that's what he's doing now, what he's working for night and day.

It's hard to work when your thoughts keep getting pulled back to another place and time, to be emotionless and calculating when fire and ice dance within you. Sherlock tries not to care. He tries not to wonder about John.

But, for all of his logic, he is still sitting in the dark, talking to a memory.


End file.
